


Rodeo!lock Miscellany

by DulcimerGecko



Series: The Devil's Blaze [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BAMF Mrs. Hudson, Blow Jobs, Boots - Freeform, Condoms, Costumes, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Explicit Consent, Fluff, Gen, Horses, Humor, M/M, Oral Sex, Pickup trucks, Pool & Billiards, Rodeos, Safer Sex, Shameless Smut, Sherlock is a Brat, Texas, Vet John, Vignette, Writing Exercise, bull penis accessories make the man, childhood ambitions, cowboy boots, employment ambitions, really ugly bedspreads, rodeo!lock, softcore cowboy nipple play, vet!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-07 15:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 9,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4268727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DulcimerGecko/pseuds/DulcimerGecko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Outtakes, excerpts, early versions of scenes, writing prompts and exercises related to 'The Devil's Blaze,' the multi-chapter rodeo!lock romance/casefic I'm currently working on.  Some of these were originally located in my 'Tumblr snippits' and have been grouped here for convenience.  Early versions of some scenes won't fit with the main story, but they were still fun to write.  Ratings range from 'G' to 'E'.</p><p>Or, to put it another way, rodeo!lock AU: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson running around in cowboy boots, Wranglers blue jeans, and cowboy hats.  'Nuff said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Sherlock meets John" for PoppyAlexander

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jinglebell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinglebell/gifts), [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/gifts), [iriswallpaper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/gifts), [Vulgarweed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/gifts), [Besina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besina/gifts), [MissDavis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/gifts).



> A quick shout-out to the lovely folks at [The Antidiogenes Club](http://antidiogenes.tumblr.com/) for being a entertaining and supportive bunch, and most especially to my betas, the wonderful [iriswallpaper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper) and the equally fabulous [Vulgarweed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed). Thank you!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because [PoppyAlexander](http://fuckyeahfightlock.tumblr.com/) asked: "I wonder, have we considered John as a steer-roping rodeo rider? Hat real low, almost covering his eyes. Jeans that fit jayzis-hear-and-deliver-me perfectly. Neck kerchief? Scuffed cowboy boots with the metal toe and heel things..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the prompt that got me started on this AU...I seriously did not expect it to turn into what will eventually be a multi-chapter casefic/romance.

~*~

Sherlock froze, mouth going dry as his gaze zeroed on scuffed boots, and traveled up, taking in sinfully muscled legs clad in dark denim, leather chaps, and a worn chambray shirt that was open far enough to reveal a tantalizing hint of sun-bronzed neck and a glint of dark blond hairs. _Champion bronco rider,_ Sherlock’s mind supplied at the oversized belt buckle. _And still active._

His mind stuttered to a halt as the stranger crouched down beside him, giving Sherlock a tantalizing whiff of clean sweat, dust, leather, and saddle oil.

“Hey,” the rider asked, nudging the brim of his Stetson up and revealing eyes the same dark blue as his chambray shirt. “You okay? That was quite a fall there.”

“I’m…okay,” Sherlock replied, remembering at the last moment to pitch his voice low, his consonants soft. He made to sit up, and immediately there was a warm, strong hand cupping his shoulder and easing him into a sitting position. “I just wasn't watching where I was going…it’s…slippery…here, and I wasn't paying attention.”

The rider grinned. “A bit, yeah,” he chuckled. “I’m guessing you don’t work with cattle much if you can’t see with your feet?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Horses, mostly,” he replied. He made to push himself up and hissed at the sudden flash of pain emanating from his left wrist.

“Hold on, easy there!” The rider reached out, callused hands cradling Sherlock’s and palpitating the rapidly swelling area with gentle efficiency. Sherlock hissed again as the man’s fingers pressed on a particularly painful point.

“Sorry,” the stranger said apologetically. “Hold your hand out,” he instructed. Leaving Sherlock’s arm suspended in midair, he reached up and untied his neckerchief, folding it over several times and making a makeshift compression bandage that he proceeded to wrap around Sherlock’s wrist. “Looks like you got a sprain, if not a break,” he explained. “The compression bandage’ll help stabilize it ‘till you can get it looked at.”

“You a doctor?”

“Vet, actually,” the man replied, “but anatomy and injury are pretty similar cross-species.” He winked. “My name’s John.”

~*~


	2. "Shirtless!John" for Jinglebell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Sherlock’s mouth abruptly went bone-dry, all thoughts of the case, of the failed leads, of the uncooperative suspects vanished as at least one part of his anatomy found a reason to rejoice in the oppressive temperatures..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Jinglebell](http://jinglebellfic.tumblr.com/): "I need more firefighter!John in my life."  
>  Me: "Will rodeo!lock work instead?"  
> [Jinglebell](http://jinglebellfic.tumblr.com/): "HELL YES!"  
> Me: *obliges*

~*~

With a growl of frustration, Sherlock pulled off his Stetson and dropped it on top of a nearby fence post. Leaning over the split-rail of the corral he began scrubbing his fingers through his sweat-drenched hair in a vain attempt to force his thoughts into some sense of order.

If it weren’t for the fact that it was anatomically impossible, he would blame the excessive heat and lack of humidity for the detrimental effects on his mind. It almost felt as if his brain was cooking inside his skull. As it was, however, he couldn’t wait to return home. Those that wrote about the glory days of the American Wild West had obviously never experienced the sheer misery of region’s summers.

Which a deep sigh, Sherlock wiped his sweaty hands off on the seat of his jeans and shifted to re-don his Stetson. The blazing, late-afternoon sun made the wide-brimmed hat a necessity, rather than a fashionable accessory, which galled him because of the havoc it wrecked on his naturally curly hair.

Abruptly, from behind him, there came the sound of cowboy boots scuffing through the dust and tussocks of dried grass. Sherlock turned with a snarl, fully intending to harangue whatever moron was about to distract him, but the vicious tirade died on his lips as he caught sight of John crossing the yard, left arm raised in a lazy wave.

Sherlock’s mouth abruptly went bone-dry, all thoughts of the case, of the failed leads, of the uncooperative suspects vanished as at least one part of his anatomy found a reason to rejoice in the oppressive temperatures.

In deference to the heat, John had removed his customary blue chambray shirt, knotting the arms low around his waist, accentuating the swing of his lean hips and his smooth stride. He’d kept his undershirt on, perhaps out of a sense of modest proprietary.

Not that it was obscuring much.

John had obviously taken advantage of one of the fairground’s water pumps to sluice cold water over his torso. Washing up, or overheated? Sherlock’s mind queried, before he abruptly dismissed that train of thought in sheer appreciation for the view presented.

The sleeveless, water-dampened cotton clung to John’s well-muscled torso, highlighting the sculpted ridges of his abs and pectorals, and doing little to obscure the darker buds that marked his nipples. The bronze of his skin glowed in contrast to the sheer white cotton and tight blue denim, while the sun glinted off of the gold hairs on his forearms.

“John,” Sherlock managed with a croak when the man was within earshot, “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“Technically I’m off the clock,” John replied, with a lazy grin. “But Greg mentioned you’d been poking around earlier, so I thought I’d swing by and see if I could find you. Beer?” Companionably, John offered him a drink from the sweating bottle he was carrying in his left hand.

Sherlock looked at the label and grimaced. “No…” Abruptly remembering his manners, he added a strained “thank you. I don’t like Budweiser.”

Unoffended, John took a swig from the open top. “Figured you’d say as such. That’s why I brought you this. Here,” with an underhand swing, he tossed the sealed bottle of water he was carrying in his right hand to Sherlock.

Sherlock caught it easily and immediately removed the cap, taking a long drink with a grateful sigh. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” John took another few steps forward until he could rest his crossed arms against the top rail of the fence, beer bottle dangling loosely in his grip. “Long day?”

“Hmmm?” Sherlock replied absently, covertly enjoying the way the tight denim of John’s jeans highlighted the excellent muscles of his arse. He glanced up to see John watching him, a smug grin creasing his face.

Very deliberately, John stretched, back arching as he let out a satisfied groan. “I asked if it’d been a long day? You look tired. Any progress?”

Sherlock blinked rapidly, taking in the play of John’s shoulders before he abruptly dragged his mind back to John’s polite query. “No,” he admitted with a grimace, turning to join John in leaning against the fence rail. “I’ve interviewed at least six stable hands, and none of them can recall seeing anything strange the night Johann Straker was killed.” He shifted until his shoulder was just brushing against John’s. “And you?”

“Nothing special, mostly Bacterial Pneumonia vaccines and pre-purchase health exams,” John replied, taking another swig of his beer. “But Jesus were there a lot of them.”

At Sherlock’s puzzled expression, John shrugged. “It’s required by state law here, and there’s an exhibition coming up next month. Best to get them in thirty days prior, or thereabouts, but ranchers being ranchers tend to put things off if something more urgent comes up.”

“Such as a spike in feed prices or a fire?”

“Exactly,” John concluded with a nod. He tilted his head back, draining the bottle and Sherlock took a moment to admire the clean lines of his throat and the way the muscles moved as he swallowed.

Beer finished, John swiped the back of his left hand across his lips and leaned down to set the bottle in the dirt by his boots. With a sigh, he rose and braced the bottom of his left boot on the bottom rail, boosting himself up with an easy movement until he was sitting on the rail, his hips level with Sherlock’s shoulders.

“John?”

“Feet hurt,” John explained. “Feels good to be off them, and if you sit down in the dirt here, you run the risk of getting goat heads or cactus spines in your ass, and then you have to drop trou and pull them out.”

“Goat heads?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head in confusion, deliberately steering his mind away from the tempting mental imagery of a John Watson’s bare backside.

“Nasty little thorny bastards,” John explained. “About the size of your pinky nail, and toxic. They sting like a mother.”

“I take it you speak from experience?” Sherlock asked dryly, shifting his feet into a more comfortable position and taking a covert sniff of John’s scent. Sweat, cattle, sun-warmed cotton and saddle oil all mingling to create a smell that was uniquely _John_.

“Yep.” With a grin, John shifted his left knee until he could bump Sherlock’s arm companionably. “So…" he began, his tone tentative. "You hungry?”

“I generally don’t eat much on a case,” Sherlock told him, turning to rest his cheek on his forearms. He looked up at John through his lashes. “Digestion slows down my mind.”

“Bullshit,” John retorted with a grin. “Hypoglycemia and passing out from low blood sugar or dehydration, those’ll slow down your mind.”

“I thought you were a vet, not a doctor,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Common sense is common sense,” John retorted without any real heat. “Are you vegetarian?”

“Me? No.”

“Any food allergies?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Why do you ask?”

“Better safe than sorry,” John told him. “Couple of times, I gone out on dinner dates with people who’ve had some frankly bizarre dietary preferences. Like that new-fangled Paleo diet? That one made going out to dinner a bit tricky. I’ve learned to ask…it’s only polite.”

“Are you asking me out on a date then?” Sherlock asked, raising his head so that he could gaze fully at John’s face.

John licked his lips, shifting his position on the fence. "Could be,“ he said cautiously. "Would you like me to?”

“That depends entirely on what you have in mind.”

“Good food…interesting conversations, generally having fun?”

Sherlock hesitated, the call of the Work battling with the lure of John’s proximity and the other man’s hopeful expression. After a moment he shrugged, giving in to temptation. "Very well. That sounds acceptable.“

“Git,” John laughed. He looked down at Sherlock, a fond expression on his face. “Do you like Mexican?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. “I’ve never tried it.”

John blinked, looking shocked. “You’re in Texas. You’ve been here for over a month, and you’ve never eaten Mexican food?”

“I’m not from here,” Sherlock reminded him tartly. “Mexican restaurants aren’t generally found up north where I live. The cook at the ranch has been supplying my meals. Why would I be eating at a restaurant when I have no need? It’s inefficient.”

“Fair enough, you damn Yankee” John acknowledged. “But you’re missing out. Mexican food’s good stuff.”

“Describe it to me, then.”

“Put it this way, do you like spicy?”

“Yesss…” Sherlock admitted slowly.

“How about fresh herbs and lean meats?”

“I do.”

“Cilantro?”

“That’s coriander, yes?”

John hesitated, brow wrinkling in concentration. "I think so?“

"Then yes.”

“Fantastic!” John replied. “Let’s head into town then. I’ll introduce you to Mama Rosa’s, and you can tell what you did learn today.“

Sherlock pushed himself upright and shoved his hands into his pockets with a smile. "Very well. Lead on.”

~*~


	3. "Belt buckles and Bar Fights"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock just can't keep his deductions to himself..._

~*~

“What are you thinking about? The case?” John asked, his blue eyes warm with affection and the underlying hint of arousal as he gazed at the brunet sitting on the bar stool beside him. Sherlock didn’t respond immediately but that was nothing new. The genius did have a tendency to get lost inside his own head. John smiled in patient amusement: Sherlock would respond when he was ready.

Still smiling, John took another sip of his beer as he waited, the fingers of his right hand toying idly with the ring of condensation the cold glass had left on the polished surface of the bar. The aged wood had been worn smooth by the pressure of countless palms and elbows over the years. Pity the same couldn’t be said for the seating, John thought to himself as he shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position on the bar stool’s cracked vinyl padding. 

The country-western themed bar around them was loud with the buzz and hum of conversations, clinking glasses and the solid thunk and slide of boots as men and women took advantage of the dance floor in front of the stage. On stage, a quartet of four men were strumming guitars, a bass and a mandolin while crooning about coal and trains and death by steam scalding. Morbid lyrics, despite the cheerful music, but the crowd didn’t seem to mind if the whoops and shrieks of laughter were any indicator.

“Belt buckles,” Sherlock eventually answered, gaze not wavering from his focus: a nearby pillar that had served as a congregation point for a party. There were three men, all well-muscled, and all clad in jeans and cotton tee-shirts, but one in particular stood out: a six-foot, three inch blond Adonis with a girl on each arm and a belt buckle the size of a tea saucer adoring his fly. 

John blinked and licked his lips in puzzled reflex at the non sequitur. “Belt buckles?” Shifting slightly in his chair, John peered over Sherlock’s shoulder to see what the other man was staring at. “What...you...want to know what they stand for?” the vet asked, taking another swig of his beer.

“Mmmmm…nope,” Sherlock replied, his deep voice emphasizing the pop on the ‘P’. “So-called ‘championship’ buckles are available for purchase on eBay to anybody that has the money to spend, rendering their meaning useless for communication purposes, much like the commercialization of ancestral heraldry. No, their value lies primarily as a means of advertising sexual prowess. I’m attempting to calculate the ratio between buckle-size and penial size using your measurements as a mean.” 

John promptly aspirated his drink. Still coughing, John could only listen in horror as Sherlock. Kept. Talking. 

The detective tilted his head, indicating the nearby Adonis with a tip of his Stetson’s hat brim. “Take the blond man two tables over, or, better yet, his friend in the red shirt. Both men are wearing buckles approximately two point five times the size of a normal clasp. Superfullious for holding up one’s trousers, but useful for drawing attention to one’s groin. But why would you attempt to draw attention? Either your genitalia are larger-than-average, in which case a belt buckle would be unnecessary adornment, or you’re attempting to overcompensate for perceived inadequacies: the latter being more likely. If my theories are correct, reverse extrapolation means at least two of those men--if not all three--have significantly smaller-than-average-sized penises. Perhaps four centimeters when flaccid and...mmmm…seven, maybe eight point five centimeters when fully erect. That's one point six inches when flaccid and two point seven, possibly three point three inches when erect if you're having problems doing the metric to U.S. customary measurement conversion,” Sherlock added helpfully. 

There were times, John mused as he tried to catch his breath, where he’d really give a lot to be able to spontaneously teleport out of a dangerous situation the way the Doctor did. Every party or group conversation had its pockets of quiet: breaks between songs, conversational lulls, points where everybody took a bite or drink at the same time. It was just his unfortunate luck that one of those lulls happened to coincide with the observations a tactless prick blessed with a baritone voice that carried to Every. Corner. Of. The. Room. 

There was a deadly silence. Some of the more observant bar patrons began edging away and towards the exits while others began reaching for their mobile phones.

Still coughing, John slid off his stool to plant his shorter frame squarely between Sherlock’s own and the cluster of furious and humiliated cowboys advancing towards them. “You’re a dick, you do realize that?” John asked rhetorically, just before the first punch was thrown.

~*~


	4. "Safer oral sex" for iriswallpaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unashamed safer oral sex in a barn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing smut exercise. Enjoy if you like, skip if you don't. Pubic hair colour attributed to the adorable [jinglebell's](http://jinglebellfic.tumblr.com/) amazing story 'Riptide Lover'.

~*~

“Oh Jesus,” John gasped, head thunking back against the wall as the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth engulfed him.

Sherlock glanced up, his eyes wicked, before pulling off with an audible pop. “Not quite,” he rumbled, left hand holding the condom firmly in place while his right massaged John’s right thigh, enjoying the feel of strong muscles flexing under smooth skin. “Try again.” He leaned forward, tongue circling the head of John’s cock before drawing it between his lips and sucking the tip, his teeth grazing very gently over John’s frenulum.

“Oh FUCK, God!” John swore, hands scrabbling frantically at the wall behind him.

“Better,” Sherlock acknowledged as he leaned forward again, lips engulfing John in smooth heat as his tongue worked along the vein on the underside of John’s shaft. He adjusted his left hand so that he could ghost his thumb lightly over John’s testicles while still keeping the condom situated. Sherlock leaned forward, inhaling deeply. This close, John smelled even more enticing than usual. The vet's usual leather-and-spice scent was overlaid with the musk of arousal. Sherlock growled in pleasure as he took John's cock deeper and buried his nose in the cinnamon-coloured curls framing John’s crotch.

His head bobbed, keeping time with the last song he and John’d danced to, hours ago. His mind’s eye filled with the images of how John had looked while dancing, strong arms flexing as he’d twirled Sherlock around, his hips twisting in time to the beat. Sherlock hummed at the memory, fingers tightening on John’s thighs as the other man tried to buck in response to the vibration.

“Sorry, sorry,” John babbled, head thrashing against the wall. “Jesus, I’m so close, I’m gonna--”

Sherlock gave one last strong suck and John convulsed, swearing in a mixture of English and Spanish as he came, pulsing against the latex barrier. Sherlock gentled his mouth, but didn’t pull off, enjoying the warm weight of John’s softening shaft against his tongue.

John’s breathing was ragged, like a man who’d just across a field or wrestled a horse into submission: wordless testimony to Sherlock’s fellatio skills. Trembling fingers reached up and ghosted through Sherlock’s curls, causing the other man to purr in delight at the pleasure of being petted.

After a moment, John cupped his hand against Sherlock’s nape and gently tugged the detective’s head away: the soft sensations of Sherlock’s mouth evidently becoming too much for his sensitive flesh. With his free hand, John reached down and clasped the condom, holding it in place as his breathing continued to even out.

Sherlock waited patiently on his knees, enjoying the sight of the blond vet leaning against the barn wall flushed and utterly wrecked because of him. Smirking, he ran his palms up and down John’s legs in a repetitive motion, pleasing himself with the texture of John’s warm skin. Short sparse hairs tickled his palms, adding to his enjoyment.

Finally John opened his eyes, pupils enormous in the dim twilight. “You are amazing,” John whispered, running still-trembling fingers over Sherlock’s cheekbones and ending with a gentle tap on Sherlock’s lower lip. Mischievously, Sherlock parted his lips, his tongue flashing out to lick of John’s index finger.

“Oh God,” John groaned. “You’re also insatiable, you know that?” He pulled his hand away and turned his attention to the used condom. Deft fingers swiftly knotted it off, creating a compact bundle. Frowning, John looked around for a nearby trash bin. Seeing none, he shrugged and pulled his bandana from his back pocket. A red one, this time, Sherlock observed, enjoying the way the crimson fabric contrasted with John's golden skin. 

With quick, efficient movements, John used the fabric to finish wiping himself clean, before wrapping it around the used condom and tucking the wad of cloth into his inner jacket pocket, away and out of sight.

At Sherlock's disgusted expression John shrugged, one shoulder rising and falling in a graceful wave. "Better than leaving it on the floor," he explained as he tucked himself away, pulling up his jeans and fastening the zip and buckle with the speed of long practice. Modesty once again intact, John slid down the wall until he was seated on the floor, level with Sherlock who was still waiting patiently on his knees.

Leaning forward, John claimed Sherlock's mouth in a deep kiss, his tongue sliding against Sherlock's own in a hot, wet tangle. “You…are…amazing,” John repeated, his voice a raspy husk made rough with desire. “Please tell me I can return the favour?”

~*~


	5. "Bedroom Wrestling"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing warmup. Just a bit of foreplay and boys wrestling...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the lovely [iriswallpaper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper). Thank you dear!

~*~

“No,” John husked, bracing himself on his arms to bend down and nip teasingly at Sherlock’s jaw line. “I like you exactly here. In my bed.”

“Hmmmmm,” Sherlock rumbled, tilting his throat back to grant John better access, struggling to toe off his boots as he did so. His awkward sprawl on the bed made it difficult to do so, but he eventually managed. Boots were followed quickly by socks, making him grateful for his tenancy to practice picking up things with his toes. “You are entirely overdressed,” Sherlock complained suddenly, desperate to touch without the barrier of fabric between their skin. Deft fingers reached up and began unbuttoning John’s plaid button-down. The fabric parted with a whisper, revealing smooth skin and sculpted muscles. With a groan, Sherlock smoothed his palms greedily over the bared flesh, causing John to huff in ticklish bemusement. 

“Wait…just…a…tic…” John grunted, kneeling up long enough to shuck his shirt, pulling his hands free of the button cuffs and tossing the garment over his shoulder with an absent-minded flick of his wrist. The fabric landed on the floor with a soft rustle, joining John’s cowboy boots. With a confident smirk, John posed for Sherlock’s hungry gaze with his hands resting on his flexed quads. “Better?” the blond asked, one eyebrow rising in a confident leer as he reached out to flick a finger against one of the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt.

“Much,” Sherlock growled. Using just his abs, he pulled himself into a sitting position and pulled off his own shirt, heedless of the pop and click of scattering buttons. He could easily buy another shirt but there was only one shirtless John Watson. With an almost feral grin, Sherlock wrapped his hands around the shorter man’s waist, his fingers flexing. A sudden, strong tug as he fell back onto the bed and John collapsed onto Sherlock’s chest with a startled “Ooof!” Sherlock took advantage of John’s prone position to grab two handfuls of John’s arse and squeeze, enjoying the flex of taut muscle beneath the worn fabric. John swore and thrust against him, the hot length of his cock evident despite the confining denim. 

Another quick grapple and John was on his back, Sherlock lying prone above him. Sherlock slowly laved his tongue across John’s throat and down his chest, teasing his nipples with alternating flicks of his tongue and fingers. He inhaled the mingled scents of sweat and desire.

“God, Sherlock,” John gasped, his head tossing restlessly on the pillow. He lifted his head enough so that he could gaze at Sherlock with blue eyes gone dark with desire. He swallowed, smooth pink tongue coming out to moisten his bottom lip. “You are amazing!”

Chuckling, Sherlock continued his southward projection, smoothing his palms up John’s sides as he kissed his way down John’s well-defined six-pack. John’s skin was tanned from the bright Texas sun and Sherlock paused to admire the contrast between his own pale hands and John’s golden-honey tones. Sherlock paused at John’s belly button to tease the shallow intention with the tip of his tongue as John bucked and continued to swear.

Shifting again, Sherlock slowly began to undo John’s belt buckle and zip, only to be halted by a sun-browned hand covering his own.

“Hold on,” John gasped, reaching up and tugging gently at Sherlock’s curls with his free hand.

“What?” Sherlock snapped, annoyed at the interruption. His hands gripped John’s thighs.

“Condoms,” John said firmly. “We’re not going any further without them.”

Sherlock blew out a frustrated breath and rested his forehead on the fabric still covering John’s crotch. “Do you have any? And gloves as well, for that matter?”

“Gloves, lube, condoms, you name it.” John shimmied further up on the rumpled fabric of the duvet and pulled open the drawer of his bedside table with flattering haste.

~*~


	6. "The Hazards of Breaking In New Boots"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The elderly woman's voice trailed off as she caught sight of her madman of a tenant standing in front of the doorway to the kitchen. He was giving her his shamming 'I'm innocent' smile, the one that never fooled anybody, despite what he continued to believe. More worrying was the way his body blocked her view into the room beyond..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene was originally written during one of the first drafts of Ch. 2. It ended up not working there, though. so I edited it out and opted to post it here instead. Enjoy!

~*~

"Sherlock dear, you left your nice new hat and jacket outside in the rain," Mrs. Hudson huffed as she pushed open the flat's door, arms full of dripping fabric. Her tone was gently chiding, more exasperated fondness than anything. "They're soaked through and likely ruined now," she continued her scolding as she hung the denim jacket on a hook next to Sherlock's Belstaff. The hat was given a final shake and hung on a third empty hook. "You really should be more careful with your things and not leave them on the back step to get all mucky with who all knows what! I've brought them inside for you, but I'm your landlady not your housekeep—Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson gasped, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the odour of chemically-laden water, wet leather and something fetid that filled the flat. "What is that appalling pong? Did the pipes in the bath back up again?" She looked down, checking for evidence of sewage. Finding none, she turned to peer at the floor of the hallway, her heels clicking smartly on the wooden floor. "Sherlock, dear, why didn't you call me earlier? I'd have rung the plumbers…"

The elderly woman's voice trailed off as she caught sight of her madman of a tenant standing in front of the doorway to the kitchen. He was giving her his shamming 'I'm innocent' smile, the one that never fooled anybody, despite what he continued to believe. More worrying was the way his body blocked her view into the room beyond. 

When Mrs. Hudson spoke again, her tone was decidedly more suspicious. "Sherlock…what are you doing?"

"I'm breaking in my new boots," the equine consultant told her brightly. "I've got a new case in America that I'll be leaving for shortly. I'll be working under an alias...disguise, subterfuge," he waved an expansive hand. "Attention to detail is important. Nobody will believe I'm a reclusive horse whisperer—" 

"A what?"

"It's an American term for a particularly skilled equine trainer. Now as I was explaining before you interrupted, nobody will believe I'm a legitimate equine professional if I arrive at the ranch wearing brand new clothes. Hence the need for clean, though somewhat battered garments." 

Mrs. Hudson gave him A Look as she left off her trajectory towards the bath and returned to the main room. Sherlock responded with a tilt of his head as she did so, giving her a scrutinizing look that was usually reserved for animals. 

"That's a new dress…" Sherlock remarked, his tone arch. "Are you seeing Mr. Chatterjee later tonight? He's still married, no matter what he's told you otherwise—"

"Quit trying to distract me, young man," Mrs. Hudson snapped, easily shoving past him and into the kitchen. She froze, taking in the sight that greeted her. Sherlock had driven multiple hooks into the ceiling and cabinets, creating a crisscrossing mess of wires and clothesline over the stove. On the burner an oversized and vaguely familiar looking pot was bubbling merrily. It was evidently the source of the smell if the clouds of rank steam were any indication. Suspended from the mess by several large clamps was a pair of size 11 cowboy boots.

"Sherlock, what is this bloody mess about?" Mrs. Hudson demanded, eyes watering at the concentrated stench filling the kitchen. Giving up, she fished a perfumed hanky from her dress pocket and clamped it over her nose and mouth. 

"I told you," Sherlock snapped, his tone snide, perhaps annoyed with his inability to thwart her. "I'm breaking in my new boots."

"It doesn't look very secure," the landlady observed aloud, her voice muffled. She eyed the cobbled-together system of wires and hooks skeptically. "That hook up there looks like it's about to come out, and you'd better believe I'm adding this to your rent, young man!"

"Nonsense," Sherlock scoffed, flicking a dismissive hand. "I calculated the weight quite carefully, Mrs. Hudson." He reached up and pressed his fingertips lightly against one of the boots. "Almost ready."

"For what?"

"To put on again. Allegedly, if one steams the leather until it is both hot and moist and then walks around in the boots until they have cooled, it greatly accelerates the breaking-in process. Since my flight leaves in two days, I don't have time to break these in the traditional way, hence the need for chemical additives in the water." Sherlock reached into the first boot and pulled out a wad of fabric which he dropped into the boiling pot with a careful splash, before repeating his actions on the other boot.

Quick as his movement was, it was not quick enough to escape Mrs. Hudson's eagle-eye stare. "Sherlock," she asked, her tone dangerously soft as she suddenly recognized the scrap of fabric Sherlock had just deposited in the pot, "are those my good flannels?" She took another step forward, suddenly realizing why the pot in question looked vaguely familiar. It wasn't one she used often, cooking for one or two generally didn't require the use of a large stock pot, so it normally resided in the large cabinet above her refrigerator. But sure enough, there was the hammered-out dent in the side, caused when she had to defend herself against the brutish son of one of Sherlock's former clients. "Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson repeated, her tone one that would have made most grown adults cringe. "I asked you a question."

Sherlock's head jerked up, his expression set in a menacing glower of a man who was prepared to argue, and at great volume. 

Oh. So it was going to be like that, was it?

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips and spared a brief thought for her neighbors as she pushed her sleeves up, preparing to do battle. She'd have to remember to pick up some more caster sugar and make biscuits for the tenants on either side to apologize for the noise. 

Again.

~*~


	7. "Softcore cowboy nipple play" for Vulgarweed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You are wearing entirely too much clothing," Sherlock grumbled._
> 
> _"And you're still talking," John retorted._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there I am, muttering dire things at my current draft of Chapter 4 for rodeo!lock and paying half-a-mind to the chat antics of my fellow writers in [The Antidiogenes Club](http://antidiogenes.tumblr.com/). [Vulgarweed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed) (my other lovely beta) is playing around with a tag generator and having great fun posting the results (vintage military femslash anybody?).
> 
> And then the phrase "softcore cowboy nipple play" got posted.
> 
> And I got distracted from writing plot for Chapter 4 by the prospect of writing smut instead.
> 
> Enjoy!

~*~

"Oh god, John!"

"Shhhhhh," John whispered, running his calloused palms over Sherlock's bare skin. He reached up and gently pinched each of Sherlock's nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, the rough pads of his fingers adding exquisite sensation to Sherlock's sensitive flesh.

Not bothering to even attempt to hide his smirk, John scooted higher up on the bed and slung one of his legs over Sherlock's thighs, pinning Sherlock's hips down with his own and bringing his denim-clad arse in easy reach of Sherlock's hands.

"You are wearing entirely too much clothing," Sherlock grumbled. John's position denied Sherlock the friction and pressure he wanted on his cock, so he reached down and took a double handful of John's bum, enjoying the way the taut muscle felt in his hands as he squeezed it. 

"And you're still talking," John retorted. He let go of Sherlock's right nipple long enough to briefly wet his fingers before returning them to begin a slow roll against the nub of skin. Extending just the tip of his tongue, John began to lap at Sherlock's left nipple, alternating light, flicking taps with slow, broader strokes and gentle circles. Pulling back, John admired the reddened bud before bending his head and gusting warm breath across it while the man pinned beneath him bucked and swore.

"Now now," John scolded. "Language." John shifted, the fabric of his worn chambray shirt rubbing delightfully against Sherlock's bare skin, causing the other man to gasp. 

Lowering his head, John wrapped his lips around Sherlock's right nipple and began gently worrying it with his teeth and tongue, adding just a hint of pain to the overwhelming pleasure. 

Sherlock went silent, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. 

Pulling off, John raised his head to look at Sherlock's face, his dark blue eyes intent. "You like that?"

"For God's sake, John, don't stop!"

"Heh," John husked, lowering his head again. "As you wish."

~*~


	8. "Childhood Ambitions"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What about you?" John asked, rolling over on his right side and propping his head up on his right hand. The change in position pulled his shirt taut across his chest and biceps, delineating the muscles underneath and causing Sherlock's cheeks to heat. "What did you want to grow up and be when you were a kid?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out of me trying to decide why horse!whisperer Sherlock would have lockpicking, computer hacking and hand-to-hand combat skills.

~*~

"What about you?" John asked, rolling over on his right side and propping his head up on his right hand. The change in position pulled his shirt taut across his chest and biceps, delineating the muscles underneath and causing Sherlock's cheeks to heat. "What did you want to grow up and be when you were a kid?" John's left hand brushed across the blanket they were lying on, as he waited for Sherlock's reply, his nimble fingers picking out bits of fuzz and letting them drift away on the soft breeze that flowed over the rocky outcrop the two of them had climbed almost an hour ago.

Sherlock swallowed, thankful that the darkness hid his blush. It was becoming more and more difficult to suppress his transport's urges. Hmmming deep in his chest, Sherlock flopped over onto his back and folded his hands on his belly. He exhaled as he looked up at the enormous, starry expanse above them. John's eyes contained flecks of the same dark blue. In the distance, Sherlock could hear the whirr and click of insects and the distant screech of some sort of predator. "A spy," Sherlock finally admitted, turning his head and looking over to where John was patiently waiting for his response.

"What?" John huffed, a soft note of affectionate laughter in his voice. He raised an eyebrow, clearly wondering if Sherlock was pulling his leg. "Like James Bond? With all of those exploding wristwatches and laser pens?"

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock snapped. "James Bond isn't a real person, even though his creator, Ian Fleming, did work for British Naval Intelligence. I was more interested in being a spy like Josephine Baker, who smuggled intelligence information to the French Resistance by writing messages in invisible ink on her sheet music, or Harry Houdini, who would pick locks and sneak into secure areas in pursuit of information." Sherlock shifted his shoulders slightly on the soft blanket that John had laid out for them to recline on. "I read all of the history books and biographies we had in our library and begged my mother for more. I was obsessed."

"What all did you do?" John tilted his head, his curiosity evident. 

Sherlock shrugged, turning away to stare at the night sky again. "I begged my mother for martial arts lessons," Sherlock confessed, carefully omitting the fact that he'd studied and obtained ranking belts in both Judo and Bartitsu. "I also studied codes and cyphers." Sherlock fell silent, thinking of how those early lessons in cryptology had sparked his interest in computer coding his subsequent obsession with hacking. Sherlock chuckled as a sudden wisp of memory sparked across his mind. 

"What?"

"Oh, just that I used to annoy my older brother by stealing his homework assignments and leaving him coded messages on where to find them…"

John snickered and Sherlock felt his own smile widening in response as he looked at John from the corner of his eye. "I also studied how to pick locks...until Mum—" Sherlock barely managed to avoid using the habitual 'Mummy' "—put a stop to that." Thankfully John didn't seem to notice the slip.

Instead, John shook his head, his delight in learning about Sherlock's childhood exploits apparent. "Why am I not surprised that you were something of a holy terror as a child?"

"That's a rhetorical question, John."

"True," John replied, the smile not leaving his face. 

"What about you?" Sherlock asked after a few moments of easy silence. He turned his head to see John still watching him with a fond expression.

John blinked, obviously surprised by the question. "Me?"

"Yes. You told me about your sister's childhood ambitions, and I've confessed mine. What about yours? Did you always dream of being a veterinarian?"

John shook his head in negation, his embarrassment apparent. Sherlock responded with a mute eyebrow. 

"You'll laugh," John warned him, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. 

"Nonsense."

"Right...well...when I a kid, I wanted to be Captain America."

"Who?"

"Captain America. You know...six foot two, really strong...running around with other superheroes, saving lives and fighting bad guys?"

Sherlock blinked. He didn't know who Captain America was, and he really didn't care. Whoever it was couldn't possibly be as amazing as John Watson was in real life. Another random bit of Victor-related trivia that refused to be deleted suddenly flashed across his mind. Sherlock's mouth went dry as he imaged John Watson clad in form-fitting fabric and tight red leather…

"Billy?" John prompted, obviously concerned by Sherlock's continued silence. 

"I'm fine," Sherlock croaked, willing his transport to obedience. He was grateful that the darkness and his tight jeans hid his burgeoning erection. "I was just wondering if you ever wore the costume?"

"I did, yeah" John admitted with a laugh, abruptly causing Sherlock's thoughts to derail even further. "My mom made me a costume out of a pair of old sweatpants and one of Harry's old dance leotards when I was eight," John continued, oblivious to the hope and subsequent disappointment his words caused. "I wore it with a pair of red galoshes and a pair of red mittens. It ended up being a great Halloween costume, because South Dakota gets pretty cold by the end of October." John scooted closer on the blanket, until his left knee was just lightly brushing against Sherlock's right thigh. "Did you ever dress up in your spy costume?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, my family didn't celebrate Halloween. They still don't." A truth. Halloween was an American holiday, rather than a British one, not that John needed to be informed of that fact.

"Ah," John replied, arriving at his own conclusions. "Real religious then?"

"Something like that," Sherlock answered vaguely.

"Pity," John said. "I always got a kick out of the free candy. It was about the only time we got it, well that and the town's annual Easter egg hunt. Harry would always eat hers so fast she'd get sick. I'd try and ration mine out so it would last until Christmas."

Sherlock shifted, bringing his leg into firmer contact with John's. "You grew up poor, I take it?" Immediately Sherlock wanted to bite his tongue at the insensitive remark; positive that John would take offense and leave. Instead John surprised him by moving even closer.

"I did. That's why I joined the army. It was the only way I could afford to become a vet. I don't regret it though; it taught me to appreciate what's really important in life."

"And what's that?" Sherlock asked, licking his lips nervously. John was now very close and Sherlock could feel the warmth of his body, a delightful contrast to the cool night air. 

"People. Close friendships," John whispered, his voice dropping to a lower register. 

For a moment, Sherlock was convinced that John was going to kiss him, a thought that both thrilled and terrified him. Some of his apprehension must have shown on his face though, because John suddenly leaned back, out of his personal space, and pointed up at the night sky.

"Oh, now that was brilliant!"

"What was?" Sherlock demanded, disoriented by the sudden change in John's focus.

"I just saw a massive shooting star."

Sherlock blinked, before recalling the short-lived white streaks he'd observed earlier. _Oh. So that’s what those streaks were called..._

There was a slightly awkward silence. Sherlock wondered if he should lean in and kiss John instead. The opportunity vanished though, as John yawned and flopped back on his back. A faint green glow from John's watch briefly illuminated the vet's face as he checked the time.

"Come on," John grunted, sitting up and stretching. "It's late. We should probably be heading back."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed reluctantly, sitting up and rotating his neck until it popped. He helped John fold the blanket back up before following John back to the truck, feeling somewhere between relieved and disappointed with how the evening had abruptly ended.

~*~


	9. "Ross Taylor Original Umbrellas" for Besina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock decides to buy his big brother a gift...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the lovely [Besina ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besina/)sent me [this amusing link](http://www.rtoproducts.com/bull-canes.php) in chat, and thus the following snippet was born...

~*~

"Sh—Billy? Where'd you go?" John asked, turning around, trying to spot where the mad genius had wandered off to in the last sixty seconds while he'd been battling with the coffee dispenser.

"Over here John! Northwest corner, behind the display of mass-produced, overpriced replicas of indigenous cultural artifacts!" 

John paused, brow furrowed until he translated Sherlock's statement to mean the display of dreamcatchers and silver and turquoise jewelry he'd spotted on his way to the men's room. "Sorry," John said to the annoyed looking gas station attendant. He set the coffees and pastries down on the counter. "I'll be back in a tic."

"What are you looking at?" John asked, rounding the corner to find Sherlock holding an open black umbrella with a long, oddly shaped handle. In response, Sherlock simply shoved it into his hands before diving back into the display bin, this time pulling out a maroon umbrella from the puce, burgundy and leopard-print options available. 

John turned the umbrella over in his hands, trying to figure out why the material the long, slightly flattened handle was made from looked so odd. It wasn't bone, or antler… At that moment, Sherlock moved aside, and John was finally able to read the display sign. 

"Sh—oh UGH!" John groaned, belatedly identifying the item the umbrella handle was manufactured from. 

"Don't be tedious, John," Sherlock snapped, opening three umbrellas in quick succession and laying them out on the floor. "You're a vet. Surely you've handled equine and bovine peninses before. Not to mention that as a practicing vet, you've almost certainly inserted your hand up a cow's vagin—"

"Yeah, but not without gloves!" John interrupted, uncomfortably aware of the dark looks he and Sherlock were drawing from nearby shoppers. "That's just nasty," John complained, closing the umbrella and unsuccessfully attempting to hand it back to Sherlock.

"No hold onto that," Sherlock ordered, shoving it back into John's hands. Ignoring John's huff of annoyance, Sherlock pulled out his wallet and hurriedly counting the bills. "John, I need you to lend me fifty quid."

"What! Are you seriously thinking about buying one of these? What the hell for?"

"A gift for my obnoxious, overbearing brother," Sherlock replied, grabbing John's wallet and helping himself to the contents, despite the shorter man's splutters of protest. "I'll pay you back," Sherlock promised, returning John's wallet to the back pocket of his jeans, "but if I use my card, my brother will know, which will utterly ruin the surprise."

John blinked. "You're seriously getting your brother a bull-penis handle umbrella as a gift?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied with an evil smile.

~*~


	10. Mazarin221b's (Bumping) Ugly Duvet Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [MissDavis](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com) tagged me in [mazarin221b's](http://mazarin221b.tumblr.com) [ugly duvet challenge](http://mazarin221b.tumblr.com/post/131751329470/bumping-ugly-duvet-challenge), and asked me if I'd found an appropriate bedspread in my rodeo!lock research. I can now say I have!

~*~

Sherlock blinked as he slowly opened his eyes. According to his internal alarm, it was five, maybe six minutes past 6:00 a.m. The predawn light filtered through the cracked blinds, casting a pale yellow pallor over the space and bed it contained. Sherlock blinked again to clear the sleep from his eyes and then inhaled deeply, enjoying the feel of warm skin pressed against his own and the residual, post-coital lassitude.

Still blinking, Sherlock began to absently catalogue the faint, mingled smells of sweat and semen that surrounded the two of them. Last night, he’d been too absorbed in the touch, the taste, the scent, the overwhelming sensation of being enveloped in John to appreciate his surroundings, but now, with the room at least partially visible, Sherlock began to study John’s bedroom.

The room was beige. Beige walls, beige carpeting, accented with a beige ceiling and beige lighting fixtures. It wasn’t a home, Sherlock decided, the way that Mrs. Hudson’s flat was her home. John’s flat--apartment, Sherlock corrected himself, was simply a place to sleep and perhaps store a few possessions that were too valuable for sentimental reasons to entrust to a storage unit. What furniture he could see was cheap, second hand mass-produced pine. The sort of thing one would pick up at a thrift store. The same as the curtains and kitchen dishes he’d seen thus far. Whatever John was doing with his money, it obviously wasn’t spent on his surroundings.

John twitched in his sleep, and Sherlock turned his attention away from his analysis of the ceiling cracks to focus on the features of the man lying beside him. As Sherlock watched, John’s nose wrinkled up in a truly adorable fashion. It reminded him of a hedgehog he’d once seen on his family’s estate. He would have successfully kept the tiny Erinaceinae as a pet, if it hadn’t been for Mycroft finding the jar of worms Sherlock had foolishly stashed in a cookie jar in his closet. Dismissing the thought as irrelevant, Sherlock turned his attention back to John. 

The encroaching light turned the vet’s tanned skin golden and highlighted the different dips and ridges of his truly spectacular musculature. Shifting slightly, Sherlock ran a possessive hand over John’s bare bum, enjoying the fact that the it was several shades paler than John’s back or legs. John apparently spent quite a bit of time outside wearing nothing but a pair of shorts to have acquired such a distinctive tan line. It certainly was an aesthetic that Sherlock could appreciate. Sherlock’s gaze continued to drift down, admiring John’s legs before honing in on the mottled white and brown background they were framed against. 

Sherlock blinked, and blinked again before giving into temptation and poking the sleeping man beside him. “John,” he asked, his tone torn between puzzlement and horror. “Why are we lying on a skinned cow?”

“Hrm?” John mumbled, snuggling closer and tightening the arm he’d thrown over Sherlock’s hips, as if afraid that Sherlock would somehow vanish. “Wazzit?”

“Your bedspread, John,” Sherlock hissed. “It looks like a skinned cow!”

“Don’t be a dick,” John grunted. “It was cheap.” He yawned and snuggled closer. “Besides,” John continued, “you sure as hell weren’t complaining about the decor last night!”

~*~


	11. "Seven ball, center pocket..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys playing pool and doing a bit of flirting...

~*~

Sherlock ran his tongue over his teeth, privately appreciating the way the worn fabric of John's jeans stretched over the man's undeniably excellent arse as he bent down and lined up his shot. Sherlock flicked his eyes sidewise and saw that he wasn't the only person enjoying the view. A pair of women sitting at the table beside him were watching John also. The lust in their gaze was unmistakable. They kept giggling and whispering to each other, their low-voiced comments of "hung like a horse" and "I'd ride that cowboy" so blatantly obvious, it was scarcely worth the effort of lipreading.

He could understand why. John had an easy smile and a habit of casually flirting indiscriminately, whether it was with the harried bartender passing them drinks, or an appreciative wink at the bouncer holding open the bar's door. John had unbuttoned his chambray shirt earlier and rolled up his shirt sleeves. A concession to the heat, or a visible signal that he was off duty and inclined to relax? Regardless, the fine hairs on his forearms gleamed gold in the bar's yellow light, as did the faint stubble adorning John's chin and cheeks. The white cotton vest he wore underneath his dark blue shirt did nothing to disguise the well-muscled physique that lurked underneath. Sherlock took a sip from one of the glasses of water that John had insisted they order. As he did, he overheard the woman speculate on which one of them should try and fake needing 'help' remembering the rules of 8-ball. 

Sherlock frowned. Both women were conventionally attractive. One was tall and thin with skin the hue of fresh cinnamon. Her dark hair was pulled up into a bun on the top of her head. Her friend was shorter and quite curvaceous, with dark blond hair cut into a pixie bob and numerous freckles dotting her fair skin. If one (or both of them) made a pass at John, would the vet respond? He was distracted from his speculation by the sound of the leather impacting polyester resin, the clack of billiard balls ricocheting off of each other and John's exuberant whoop as he sunk his shot. 

"Ha!" John crowed, turning around and walking-- _no_ , Sherlock corrected-- _swaggering_ back to where Sherlock was waiting with one elbow resting on the formica top of the bar table. John hopped up on the other stool and helped himself to the whiskey that Sherlock had been nursing for the past hour. Sherlock watched, mesmerized as John brought the tumbler to his lips and took a sip of the golden liquid, his tongue flashing out to lick his lips and leaving a faint sheen of moisture on his lips in its wake. 

"See if you can beat that," John dared, setting the glass back down with an audible thump. "Loser buys the next round of drinks."

Sherlock smirked as he slid to his feet. "I'll keep that in mind...I'm intrigued by the cocktail list...the 'Lock Pick' looked interesting, as did the 'Honey Bee'."

"Dick," John said with a laugh, apparently oblivious to the interested looks the two women were giving him. He leaned forward, the unbuttoned collar of his shirt revealing a tempting slice of golden-bronze skin. "Or, since you're talking about bees, should that be 'prick'?"

"Nonsense John," Sherlock scolded, deliberately turning to give John a sultry look over his shoulder. "Bees don't prick...to prick implies to 'pierce slightly'. I prefer the term 'impale'." Sherlock didn't miss the way that John's pupils dilated in response to his statement, or the disappointed sighs from the two women.

Good.

Running his hand absently over the pool cue in a stroking motion, Sherlock circled the table, studying the position of the various balls. John's last shot, though effective, had been messy, knocking balls askew all over the table's surface and sending Sherlock's prior strategy out the window. 

Fine. He'd play this game a different way. Especially if he wanted to keep John's attention focused on him and not on the two predatory hens behind him.

"Seven ball, center pocket," Sherlock called out. Deliberately, he stretched out over the pool table angling his denim-clad arse back to where he knew John was watching with ill-disguised interest. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock calculated the radius and mass of the pool balls, the distance, angles and Newtonian Laws he would be using. Pulling the cue back, Sherlock made several trial shots, miming an unmistakably sexual thrust with the motion of the pool cue. Behind him, he heard John take a nervous swallow of his beer. Perfect. Exhaling, Sherlock pulled the cue back, before letting it fly. The cue ball shot forward, ricocheting off of two different balls before sending the designated ball neatly into the specified pocket. Smirking, Sherlock straightened up and looked over to where John was sitting, his mouth hanging open. "John?"

"Damn," John breathed, tilting his head sideways and popping his neck. His eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, looking at the final arrangement. 

Sherlock smirked. He'd planned his shot carefully, and the only two choices for John would both involve some...creative contortions. "Are you any good with your right hand, or is just your left?" Sherlock asked archly, tiling his head and deliberately accenting the line of his throat. 

John grinned, slowly, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. "Oh," he breathed, and there was no mistaking the implication in his voice, "I'm _very_ good."

~*~


	12. Rodeo!lock Birthday Blowjob for Jinglebell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John introduces Sherlock to a Texas rite of passage (aka getting off in a pickup truck).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This initially started out as a quick, smutty birthday gift for the lovely[Jinglebell](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jinglebell/pseuds/jinglebell), but then my muse decided "NO, YOU WILL WRITE SMUT WITH FEELS AND YOU WILL WRITE SEVERAL THOUSAND WORDS OF IT AND THIS NEW SCENE WILL HAVE PLOT POINTS THAT TIE INTO THE MAIN STORY AND YOU WILL DO THIS INSTEAD OF WORKING ON CH. 8 LIKE YOU PLANNED!!!!!!" A much longer version of this will eventually be incorporated into the main story. In the meantime, however, enjoy [Jinglebell's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jinglebell/pseuds/jinglebell) birthday present. She certainly did! ;)_

~ * ~ 

“It’s…pretty…out here,” Sherlock observed aloud, gazing out over the canyon. John had parked the pickup on the crest of a nearby hill, offering them a higher vantage point. The hot Texas sun had set hours ago, but an almost full moon was rising, throwing dark shadows across the landscape and painting everything silver.

“I was thinking gorgeous, actually,” John replied.

The timbre of John’s voice caught Sherlock’s attention. He turned slightly to see John watching him, a warm smile on his face. “That’s an utterly unimaginative pickup line, John,” Sherlock pointed out, trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress the flush of pleasure at the compliment.

“Doesn’t matter,” John retorted cheerfully. “You smiled; you liked it.”

“Oh?” Sherlock asked archly, “how can you be so certain?”

“You’re blushing.”

Sherlock ducked his head with a chuckle, acknowledging the truth. “Tell me, John…is that why you brought me here? To admire the scenery and make me blush?”

“Well…” John drawled, leaning back and spreading his legs slightly. “I’ll admit, that is a perfectly sound analysis…but I was hoping you’d go… _deeper_ …” His tone was unmistakably laden with innuendo.

“Oh?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head and giving John a coy look through his lashes. “Whatever did you have in mind?”

John licked his lips, sliding across the bench until he was pressed up against Sherlock’s side. His left hand settled firmly on Sherlock's right thigh while his right hand began to card through Sherlock’s curls. "Tell me…have you ever gotten off in a pickup truck?"

"I can't say that I have," Sherlock sighed, pressing into John's hand like a cat.

"That's a shame…," John husked, bending his head so he could nuzzle Sherlock's neck. "It's kind of a rite of passage around here."

"Really," Sherlock drawled skeptically, tilting his chin up to give John better access to his left ear. 

"Mmmmm hmmmm," John nodded, giving Sherlock's ear a gentle nip before beginning to press kisses down Sherlock's jaw line. John's left hand crept higher up Sherlock's thigh, until his index finger was just grazing the denim covering Sherlock's burgeoning erection. "I could…mmm…help you with that, if you'd like?"

"Please," Sherlock gasped, trying unsuccessfully to thrust up against the palm that John was now ghosting across his fly. "I would…oh God…hate to miss out on something so significant."

"Scoot up then; give me some room," John ordered. He pushed Sherlock back until he was leaning against the corner of the seat and the cab, before shifting to straddle Sherlock’s lap. The change in position pushed the bulge of John’s crotch against Sherlock's matching erection, making both men gasp at the sudden contact.

To please himself, Sherlock ran his hands over John's strong shoulders and down his back, enjoying the contrasting sensations of soft, worn cotton and hard muscle underneath his palms before grabbing John’s arse and urging him to rock against him. 

"Oh Jesus," John gasped, driving his denim-clad erection against Sherlock's own, his hips moving with the same easy grace as when he rode a bucking horse. "You like that?" John growled when Sherlock arched up, baring his throat. "You want me to keep going?" In the dim light, John's pupils were enormous, surrounded by the thinnest rings of blue, silent testament to his arousal.

“Please!” 

With an almost feral smile, John bent his head and attacked the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, working them open using nothing but his skilled lips, teeth and tongue. "Patience, you," John mock-scolded when Sherlock tried to urge him to go faster. "I'll get there in a moment." Buttons dispensed with, John straightened up tugged Sherlock's purple plaid shirt free from his jeans. He parted the thin cotton, baring Sherlock's chest to the silvery moonlight and froze. 

"Oh my god…just look at you," John whispered, his tone unmistakably reverent. He reached out and slowly smoothed his left hand over Sherlock's belly, his fingertips skimming lightly over the delineations of Sherlock's abdominal muscles. "You are so goddamn gorgeous…You're a fucking work of art…like one of those Greek statues we studied in school…all perfect alabaster skin and godlike proportions." John swallowed hard and leaned forward to claim Sherlock's lips in an unmistakably filthy kiss. "The things I'm gonna do to you, you gorgeous man," John whispered as he shifted to kneel in the footwell and reached for Sherlock’s fly. "Just you _wait_." The sound of the zipper seemed abnormally loud in the quiet air, as did the rustle of fabric as John tugged Sherlock’s jeans and pants away, baring him to John’s appreciative gaze. 

"John," Sherlock growled after a long moment, frustrated with John's lack of movement. "No pun intended, but would you quit dicking around?"

John blinked, visibly coming back to himself. “Right, yeah. Sorry.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a foil-wrapped condom and, to Sherlock’s astonishment, rolled it on using nothing but his mouth. 

"Oh…God," Sherlock gasped, squeezing his eyes shut, his head involuntarily falling backwards and hitting the pickup truck's side window with an audible 'thunk' at the feeling of John's mouth engulfing him in wet, slick heat. 

With a smirk, John slid back up and ran his tongue in a broad, wet stripe over the plastic barrier now sheathing Sherlock's cock. "God, I wish I could taste you for real. Flavoured condoms aren't bad, but I imagine you taste even better."

"Joooohhnnn," Sherlock whined, forcing his eyes open with difficulty and tilting his chin to glare at the smirking vet kneeling between his legs. "Stop. _Talking_."

“Bossy,” John chuckled, taking Sherlock’s cock back into his mouth and beginning to suck in earnest. He wrapped his left hand around the shaft, establishing a steady, toe-curling rhythm while his right hand dropped between Sherlock’s thighs to cradle the heavy weight of Sherlock’s testicles in his palm. 

Periodically, John would pull back and swirl his tongue around the head of Sherlock’s cock like he was sucking on an ice lolly. Every time he did, he made sure to catch Sherlock’s eyes before diving back in with gratifying eagerness, urging Sherlock to fuck his mouth. The air in the cab filled with the musk of male arousal and sweat, adding to the already prevalent scents of leather, woodsmoke, sagebrush and sand.

"Oh God, JOHN!" Sherlock shouted, thrashing his head against the back of the seat as his balls tightened, heralding his impending release. "John, I'm getting close—"

John growled in encouragement, his cheeks hollowing inward as he sucked even harder. The obscene sound was enough to tip Sherlock over the edge. White-hot pleasure coursed through Sherlock’s frame, making him keen. Dimly he was aware of John grunting, but the motions of John’s mouth didn’t stop. Instead, John gentled Sherlock through the aftershocks, the plastic barrier between them preventing it from becoming too much.

"That was fantastic," John eventually whispered, letting Sherlock’s penis slip free from between his lips to lay flaccid and soft against his cheek as he looked up at Sherlock, his eyes bright with affection.

“What…what about you?” Sherlock managed after two tries, utterly blissed out. His tongue felt abnormally thick and slow from the endorphins coursing through his system. "Do you want my mouth or my hand…" 

John giggled. “That’s…actually not necessary,” he interrupted, pressing a kiss to one bare thigh.

“Wha?”

“Listening to you enjoy yourself was so fucking hot, I came in my pants like a damn teenager!”

~ * ~ 


	13. Book cover for 'The Devil's Blaze' (Romance version #1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got inspired by a book cover I saw at my work. I'm pretty sure this wasn't what my instructors had in mind when they taught me how to use MS Word...


	14. Book cover for 'The Devil's Blaze (Suspense/Thriller version)




	16. Book cover for 'The Devil's Blaze' (Romance version #2)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr as ["DulcimerGecko"](http://dulcimergecko.tumblr.com/) if you want to wander over and say "Howdy!"


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